Cowering under my blankets,
the world’s most perfect love poem
running races in my blood,
I realize I am not pure enough
to speak it aloud.
Wrapped in my only saving grace,
an imagined lover’s embrace,
I shudder and shake
and open my mouth to scream
so loudly that only I can hear.
My thoughts dance around me,
taunting, tepid when I touch them,
no heat, no ice,
only mediocrity.
And I know the only things
keeping me here
are the webs and nets and chains
I constructed from years of
bitterness and laughter and melted snow.
I need freedom!
From tyranny.
Freedom!
From fear.
Freedom!
From tears.
Freedom . . .
From me.
My lover tries to pull me close,
unearthing my languishing ideas
from the suffocating coziness
cocooning my body now.
Emergence . . .
Is not possible.
Transition . . .
Will not bring transcendence.
Metamorphosis . . .
Does not bring change.
Dawn crashes outside my haven,
bringing thoughts of midnight
and a fuzzy clarity
that is just this side of pure.
I search for my future,
but the cards don’t speak anymore;
I’ve decided Hallmark lies.
Their poetry is regurgitated,
not like the pure words
burning in my veins,
the words that want
so badly to escape.
But they’re stuck
in my chains, and my webs,
in the coziness that stifles their growth,
their only exit
my silent, shattering scream.
So they clog,
and they writhe,
and I open my mouth to scream
to dream
to move
but I end up choking
on the words to the
world’s most perfect love poem
and suck my blankets
down my throat
until at last I sleep
in the tepid warmth
of my imaginary lover’s embrace.